Team Omega (38 page)

“We need someone to serve as a leader when we take back our country,” Matt said, flatly.  “How many SDI superhumans are left alive?”

“I’m afraid that isn't clear,” Layla said.  “You’re alive, of course, but many of the others will have gone underground to wait until they can get back in touch with legitimate authority.  Besides, you don’t need a covert operative, do you?  You need a superhero.”

“Hope
killed
America and the others,” Matt said, sharply.  There had been more than one America, but three of them had now died in the line of duty.  “We need a real warrior...”

“We have one,” Layla said.  She swung one of the screens around for him to see.  “You may have heard of this guy. 
Everyone
has heard of this guy.”

Matt saw who she meant and had to smile.  “Fireman himself,” he said.  “Do you think he’ll come back to us?”

“I hope so,” Layla admitted.  It wasn't like her to doubt anything.  “I don’t think there’s anyone with his status left in the United States, certainly not from the first superhuman era.  There’s Invincible, but he’s British.  You think that the United Kingdom would agree to loan him to us for a few months?”

Matt shook his head.  “Do you have a way of contacting him without being detected by your counterpart?”

“I believe so,” Layla said.  “It's a system of innocuous code words that won’t mean anything to anyone without the key.  And they were never stored outside the SDI database, which was destroyed rather than captured.  Do you want to take the risk?”

Matt hesitated, and then nodded.  “It will take too long to reach him without it,” he agreed.  “Send the message.”

Layla tapped her computer for a few moments.  “Something else,” she said.  “Mr. Harrison left a note behind, to be opened in the event of something happening to him.  I suggest you take it and read it.”

***

Night was falling over upstate New York as Matt parked his second stolen car by an abandoned farmhouse.  According to Layla’s scan through the records, the owners had skipped town after losing their money on the stock market; the lawyers had kept the property in limbo until the new owners were identified, a task made harder by the sheer morass of transactions the former owners had created to hide their tracks.  Matt had no difficulty in hiding the car where it wouldn't be seen from the road.

He waited close to the farmhouse, and tried to relax.  He had always loved the countryside, even though it threatened to overwhelm his senses with the sheer pulse of life running through the world.  It was natural, not man-made.  He’d always intended to retire to the country after resigning from the SDI.

He sensed the gust of air left behind by a Level 5 superhuman before the man dropped out of the sky, landing next to Matt’s hiding place.  Oddly, his mouth felt dry; the man he was looking at was a legend, even in the superhuman world.  Fireman had been the first true superhero, and also the best.  But then, he hadn't sold out to the corporations and PR groups that had created nightmares like the Young Stars or the Butch Boys.

“Fireman,” he said, almost stammering.  “It’s an honour to meet you.”

“Just call me Michael,” Fireman said.  “My
name
is Michael Lee.  Fireman is just the tag the reporters gave me when they got over their shock at seeing a man fly.”

Up close, he was impressive, wearing a set of jeans and a shirt that was somehow more remarkable than Hope’s golden spandex.  Like Hope, he was larger than life, with an impression of muscles on his muscles, but unlike Hope he had never lost touch with the mundane world.  “The General is dead, then?”

“We assume so,” Matt said.  “And Mr. Harrison is missing, presumed dead.”

“Hope has gone insane,” Lee said, flatly.  “I assume you have a plan to take him out?”

“I’m working on it,” Matt admitted.  “Michael...I need—the
country
needs—someone who can serve as the public leadership of the resistance.  We need you.”

“I thought that it might come to this,” Lee said, slowly.  “I said I never wanted to return to wearing the American uniform.”

He shook his head.  “But the choice is between leaving Hope in a position to devastate the world, or fighting him.  I don’t think that we have much choice;
I
don't have much choice.”  His gaze sharpened.  “How much of the SDI survived?”

“As far as I know, just me and a couple of others,” Matt admitted.  He didn’t dare say too much, not with the Redeemer still in commission.  “There will probably be other survivors, but they’re underground.  And if they use the internet, the Saviours will probably be able to track them down before we can warn them.”

He hesitated.  “But there may be somewhere else we can go,” he added.  “And with you, we might be able to get the New Yorkers to join us.”

“And then see if we can take out the Saviours without destroying Washington in the crossfire,” Lee said.  He grinned, brightly.  “Let's be about it then, shall we?”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

“They destroyed it?  They destroyed it
all
?” Hope asked, incredulously.

“I’m afraid so,” Mainframe said.  “They must have had a long-term contingency plan for
something
happening to the United States.  The Pit had a nuke buried underneath, and they set it off the moment they realised that there wouldn't be any help from outside.”

Hope cursed.  The Pit, the most secure prison in the world, had been designed for imprisoning superhumans too dangerous to be allowed to roam free.  Some of them deserved death and he wouldn't have hesitated to kill them if they’d crossed his path, but others were effectively political prisoners, locked up for refusing to comply with SARA.  He had intended to sort through the prisoners, execute those who deserved to die and use the remainder as an example of the positive changes he intended to bring to the United States, but now they were all dead. 

“General Kratman used to say that the next war would be a superhuman war,” he said, slowly.  Back when superhumans had first appeared, no one had realised just how many there would be within twenty years.  The American Government had preserved as many supervillains as it could, just in case it needed them.  Hope would have thought that the Slaughter Incident would have taught them better, but they’d still kept the superhumans in the Pit.  Not that it mattered any longer.  “Did we lose anyone?”

“They blew it up just after we approached the base,” Mainframe said.  “No one died, but maybe we should have used Gateway to get into the prison first.”

Hope shook his head.  Gateway could create portals to places she’d been, or places she’d seen pictures of, but not to places she didn't know at all.  There were no images of the Pit’s interior available to the American population, something Hope suspected was intended to prevent them from protesting the treatment of the prisoners.  Or maybe not; some of the prisoners were superhuman serial killers, rapists, or even thieves who had been damn near unstoppable without the SDI.  The American population would probably cheer their execution.

“Never mind,” he said, finally.  It had been a setback, but not one he intended to dwell upon.  “What’s happening in the country at large?”

Mainframe hesitated.  “A great deal of civil disobedience,” he admitted.  “Whatever we may have hoped for from the United States, it may be a long time before we get it.  People aren't showing up for work, companies and corporations are not cooperating with us...and large segments of the military are still out there.  And we haven't tracked down the Vice President or the nuclear launch codes.”

Hope scowled.  “I thought you had access to their entire military network?”

“The submarines that carry nuclear missiles aren’t linked to the network,” Mainframe reminded him.  “And some of their bases are completely isolated from the military network as well.  They had enough problems with merely human hackers to understand the value of computer security before we came along—and I bet that the SDI had someone like me to prove just how vulnerable the system actually was.”  He snorted.  “Plenty of civilians don’t realise it, Hope.  They’re still sending messages stating their outrage in the clear.”

He shook his head.  “We need to move ahead with the trials.  Once we prove just what rotten fucks the government counted among its numbers, maybe things will get better.  But right now, the economy is dropping like a stone and that’s going to spread pretty damn quickly.  We have to fix this problem before it becomes impossible to halt.”

Hope nodded, remembering the brief—edgy—meeting he’d had with the British Ambassador, who was speaking for the United Nations Security Council after Bill Jefferson had been arrested by the Saviours.  The Ambassador had warned him there was no way that the Security Council could recognise him as the new American leader, not after the chaos the Saviours had already caused in Libya.  They might not do anything to remove Hope from the country—the Redeemer had confirmed they were still trying to decide what to do—but there wouldn't be any help from overseas. 

The nightmare was that the Russians or the Chinese might launch a massive nuclear attack, in the hopes of wiping out the Saviours before they could come for the rest of the world.  In that case, Hope believed that they could intercept most of the missiles before they landed and destroy them—ICBMs hadn't been designed to target individual superhumans—but it was quite possible that a number would get through and slaughter vast numbers of Americans.  Or the remains of the American government might fire on Washington themselves, accepting the deaths of millions of their own citizens to destroy Hope and the Saviours. 

Hope had once found it hard to believe that anyone could be so callous.  He’d learned hard lessons since.

“Keep working on it,” he ordered.  Mainframe nodded.  “Let me know if you can locate any particular dissenters.  Maybe we can convince them that this is all for the good of the country.”

“You’ve struck at one of America’s most cherished offices,” Mainframe said.  “You removed the President by force.  I think it will be a long time before the majority of the country realises that this was all for the best.”

Hope nodded.  “And bring me Mr. Harrison,” he added.  “I want to speak with him.”

***

Chester had endured an uncomfortable night in the White House Ballroom, sleeping on a blanket and eating basic rations provided by the Saviours.  At least they’d taken the wounded away to a proper hospital, something that suggested that they’d already consolidated their control over the entire country.  The pre-Hope contingency plans had evidently proven to be badly inadequate for the crisis they’d finally faced, leaving Chester to wonder if they’d acted wisely or foolishly.  Would it have been smarter to round up the SDI and as many superhumans as they could, and use them to force Hope to stay in the Congo?

He was still mulling over the possibilities when a pair of mutants beckoned for him to follow them.  Resistance was obviously futile, so Chester stood up and allowed them to lead him out of the ballroom, up the stairs and into the Oval Office.  He felt a pang as he saw the destroyed wall, revealing the President’s emergency exit, and the plaster and metal scattered on the floor.  The Saviours had clearly decided that they had better things to do with their time than repair the damage they’d inflicted on the White House.

Hope was seated behind the President’s desk, reading through a series of reports that had probably been produced by what remained of the civilian bureaucracy.  If Hope was smart, he’d probably try to keep the bureaucrats and policemen working for him, or running the country would become pretty much impossible.  But Americans rarely liked government officials at the best of times; and now, those officials would be working for an enemy occupying the White House.  They’d feel perfectly justified in shooting any IRS agents they happened to encounter over the next few months. 

“Mr. Harrison,” Hope said.  He sounded tired.  The SDI had taught him to be charismatic, but the lessons had clearly been forgotten over the last few hours.  But then, Hope still needed to sleep and he’d probably gotten little rest since he’d invaded the United States.  “Why are you immune to telepathic probes?”

Chester had to smile.  “
That’s
your first question?”

“I intended to have your mind probed for information,” Hope said.  He sounded more irked than angry, but it was difficult to be certain.  Any Level 5 superhuman would have good control of himself, or he might lose control of his powers.  “But the Redeemer says that your mind is a complete blank.  Why?”

“You know what they say about bureaucrats being brainless,” Chester said, dryly.  Needling Hope into killing him might be the best possible solution.  He had few illusions about his ability to resist torture.  “I have no brains to read.”

Hope merely lifted an eyebrow.  “You were the one who sent Sparky to the Congo,” he said, flatly.  “I saw your face in her mind.  And the General believed you to be the main...coordinator of superhuman affairs, including some that were never placed under the SDI.  Why are you immune to telepathic probes?”

Chester sighed.  “There’s a process that grants a person the ability to...shield his thoughts,” he said, finally.  Given enough time, Mainframe would probably pull the details out of Langley’s database—or the SDI’s, if they’d managed to capture it intact.  “I was one of the lucky few who had the treatment.”

“I don’t believe you,” Hope said, flatly.  “If there
was
a way to shield thoughts from being picked up by a telepath, everyone in the government would have used it—but the Redeemer doesn't have any problem reading the President’s mind.  Why were you the only one given the treatment?”

“The treatment has a very low survival rate,” Chester admitted.  “The odds of surviving such complex brain surgery are roughly one in ten.  I had my treatment done before the doctors realised just how unlikely it was that
anyone
would survive—as far as I know, only three people had the treatment and survived.  President Cheney later ordered a halt to all further testing, at least until technology advanced to the point where we could provide the treatment to someone with a reasonable chance of survival.”

“Which explains why the next President kept you around,” Hope said, slowly.  “I’m surprised that Cheney didn't order the treatments to be continued on condemned criminals, in the hopes of making it safer.”

“Cheney wasn't the monster the media made him out to be,” Chester said, dryly.  “The sad truth behind the American Presidency is that while you’re in office, you’re the worst President the country ever had.  Everything that goes wrong is your fault, even if it started under your predecessor or came out of nowhere—and your approval ratings will reflect that.  And then, once you retire, people will actually
miss
you because your successor will seem even worse.”

He snorted.  “I suppose the same could be said for you.  How long do you intend to sit in that chair and call yourself the President?”

“Once the country is sorted out, I intend to hold elections and then retire,” Hope said, flatly.  “I didn't want to do this.”

“But it was inevitable once you started hammering away at the world,” Chester said, darkly.  Maybe he could
talk
Hope into leaving the United States.  “Don’t you see that your actions, no matter how justified they individually seem, are spreading chaos from nation to nation?”

Hope looked back at him, coldly.  “You know just how much these ears hear?”  He tapped his right ear with one gloved hand.  “I hear the cries of children who starve because they don’t have enough to eat, while giant warehouses in their country store food for delivery to rich foreigners who pay more than the locals.  I hear the moans of men who die on battlefields fought out for petty reasons.  I hear the screams of women as they are abused and raped by the fighters who invade their villages, or their husbands as they take out their helplessness on their wives.  I hear the sobs of people jailed for daring to oppose the governments.  I hear the sounds of leaders indulging themselves while their country starves because they simply don’t care about their people.  How could I hear all that and do nothing?”

“You might have managed to save the Congo,” Chester said, seriously, “but what were you thinking when you lashed out at Libya?  You didn't just kill their terrorist of a leader; you smashed their entire government and military edifice.  Now the country is in chaos, and refugees are fleeing everywhere.  The CIA picked up reports of ethnic cleansing as Libya fell back on the old tribal structure and religious violence as the lunatics banished from Iraq started inciting sects to fight their opponents in the name of God!

“It’s a fragile world out there, Hope.  Don’t be too surprised when it starts to push back.”

“You tried to kill me,” Hope said.  “I
know
that you sent the assassin into the Congo with orders to kill me.”

Chester sensed the wounded pride hiding under his tone and almost smiled, grimly.  It was personal.  For all his claim of being detached from the world, to be able to do the right thing without fear or favour, he had taken the assassination attempt personally. 

“It’s a fragile world,” he repeated.  “We acted in the hopes of preventing you from spreading more chaos—what were you thinking when you promised to remove every non-democratic country in the world?”

“My popularity ratings in the United States are higher than the President’s,” Hope said.  “Did you make a democratic decision to have me killed?”